Legacy: The Acclaimed Novel of Elizabeth, England's Most Passionate Queen -- and the Three Men Who Loved Her (82 page)

“Very well! A little time he may have to set this outrageous blunder to

rights. But I shall still write a letter to make him smart.”

Burghley bowed stiffly. “That, madam, is your privilege, and my

pleasure. I know I can safely leave the wording in your hands.”

t t t

The Queen’s despatch, written with icy formality in the third person,

humbled Leicester into desperate attempts to salvage his mission from the

ruin into which he had plunged it by that rash act. He paid his men from

his own purse and worked himself into illness to draw back some vestige

of standing in her eyes; and later he received a very different letter from

her, one that moved him to tears as he read it in the poor candlelight a

the height of his campaign.

“Rob,

I am afraid you will suppose by my wandering writings that

a mid-summer’s moon has taken a large possession of my brain

this month; but you must take things as they come into my head,

though I leave order behind me…”

The letter accompanied him to his hard trestle bed where he lay awake

trying to resolve the problems of ill-trained and half-starved soldiers,

greedy officers and rank corruption, the constant bickering of niggardly

Dutch allies. Oh yes, he had made a fine shambles of this and they both

knew it. Yet her incredible letter, with its “million and legion of thanks

for all your cares and pains,” told him simply that he had done his best

and that little else mattered.

“I pray God bless you from harm and save you from all foes…”

A friend not won with trifles, nor lost with the like, she could love

beyond desertion and treacherous disobedience. What was he doing here

pretending to be a king, deserting the only significant role he had ever

held in this world? He should never have come, he should never have

left her, because without her he was nothing, an empty shadow with no

substance. To go home now was the summit of his worldly ambitions;

but home was not at Wanstead with his gay, voluptuous, shallow wife.

He could see now that it never had been.

t t t

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All through the Spring of 1586, Walsingham had watched his trap with

the ceaseless vigilance of a hunter. Not a word which left the pen of Mary

Stuart and her correspondents escaped his eye, but for a strangely long time

there was nothing significant. Harmless prattlings and dignified complaints

about her treatment passed to and fro and mocked him with their inno-

cence. He supported Leicester’s wretched case in the Netherlands, but

with something less than his customary snub-proof intensity, and the men

who worked closely with him noted his tense preoccupation.

It was May when the first breath of conspiracy drifted into the

communication channel, originating with a Jesuit priest named Ballard.

Mendoza, in Paris, informed Philip that it was the most hopeful plot of all

and it followed the usual lines—the murder of Elizabeth to be followed

by the accession of the Scottish Queen.

Walsingham waited on further developments and set a spy on one

of Elizabeth’s young Catholic courtiers, the vain, impulsive, hopelessly

romantic Anthony Babington. But even Babington realised the dangers

involved and for several agonising weeks he hesitated on the brink of

the plot. Just as Walsingham had begun to think he was wasting his time

and money after all, Babington pushed aside his doubts and assumed the

leadership of the enterprise, causing the Secretary to reflect grimly that a

little patience is usually rewarded.

Once the wheels of conspiracy had begun to turn, the plot rapidly

gathered momentum. Gifford approached Babington, on Walsingham’s

instructions, in the guise of a religious fanatic and pointed to himself as

a go-between. He was well acquainted with Queen Mary and believed

he had her trust; she would listen to his advice. He explained the little

comedy with the beer barrels, mocking the stolid ignorance of Mary’s

custodian, Paulet, and saw that Babington was favourably impressed; it

was easy after that.

Babington wasted no time once he had committed himself. He

was very familiar with the royal household and had soon approached

six gentlemen with good positions in reasonably close attendance on

Elizabeth—among them a Gentleman Pensioner, the son of the Under

Treasurer and the son of the Master of the Wardrobe. Attending assidu-

ously to her public needs about the court, they awaited the quiet word

from Babington to kill her.

It had all been so easy that Babington got carried away with his own

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importance. Posterity interested him—so much so that he actually had his

portrait painted with the six conspirators, ready to be hung at Whitehall

or Windsor or wherever it should please Queen Mary to hang it, for the

world to see.

By the end of June the portrait was finished; and very handsome he

looked too, as Gifford agreed, when invited to admire it.

t t t

Secretary Walsingham looked up from the portrait which had been placed

on his tidy desk. He was not amused, but he was certainly amazed.

“You say he commissioned this for posterity?”

“Yes, sir—hard to credit isn’t it? But he’s been showing it off to all his

close friends.”

Walsingham sucked in his breath with a long hiss, like a snake.

“I have observed some strange sights in my time, Gifford, but for sheer

effrontery I should be hard put to match this one.”

Gifford’s ugly face was twitching with nerves and amusement. He

could never look at Walsingham’s pallid, passionless features without

remembering the painful circumstances of their first interview and the

penalty for failure on this mission.

“You never saw such a vain, empty-headed popinjay, sir, and that’s

God’s truth.” Gifford paused and wished he had not had cause to mention

God in Walsingham’s presence. It conjured up memories he would have

preferred to forget. “He must be raving mad, sir,” he continued hastily.

“I wonder you take his dabbling seriously.”

“Madness,” said Walsingham coldly, “is no deterrent to murder. Fools

may handle guns and knives as well as sane men.” He sighed and stared

down at the portrait once more. “But you have done well, Gifford. This

goes to the Queen without a moment’s delay.”

He rose and locked his drawers automatically, frowning at the thought

of Elizabeth’s loud laughter. Her irreverent sense of humour appalled him

and he was well enough acquainted with her nature to know that this

arrogant portrait would throw her into ecstasies of amusement.

He glanced curtly at his spy.

“You will see this portrait is returned before it is missed. Babington

must suspect nothing, least of all you.”

“Yes, sir.” Gifford bowed in obsequious agreement. “I don’t think

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we’ll have to wait much longer. Babington has made all his arrange-

ments—he should write to the lady any day now.”

Walsingham nodded and walked stiffly towards the Queen’s apart-

ments with the clumsy, linen-wrapped parcel under his arm.

Early in July Babington wrote to Mary, detailing the plot and asking

for advice as to her rescue. When he had signed and sealed the letter, he

handed it to Gifford, who hovered beside his desk.

“See to it she receives that without delay. And take the greatest care.

It contains all our lives, you understand.”

“Anthony, you know you can trust me to be as circumspect as the

case demands.”

Babington stood up and squeezed Gifford’s hand with emotion.

“For Queen Mary and the True Faith, my friend.”

“For Queen Mary and the True Faith,” echoed Gifford dutifully, his

face pale, serious, sincere. He went out of Babington’s room without a

flicker of emotion and rode hell for leather to the English court.

Next morning, Walsingham sat down to read the deciphered copy of

that letter, his knees suddenly too weak with excitement and anticipation

to bear his weight.

“It’s what you wanted, then, sir?” Gifford watched the Secretary’s face

with cautious curiosity.

“Excellent.” Walsingham spread his hands in an expansive gesture. “It

couldn’t be much better—exactly what I had hoped for!”

“Will you arrest them tonight, sir?”

“I think not.” Walsingham spoke without raising his eyes from the

letter.

“
Sir
?” Gifford’s head flung upwards and his mouth dropped open with

astonishment. “But the Queen—”

“The risk to the Queen is not immediate.” Walsingham’s cool voice

flowed on as though there had been no interruption. “I’m certain

Babington will not act until he hears from Mary. There must be no

panic and no suspicion until I am ready to strike at the head of this

bosom serpent. I must have her reply in writing or she will slip through

our fingers again—believe me, I know Her Majesty too well to leave

any loophole at this stage.” He paused and plaited his fingers together.

“Whatever it takes I must have her reply, Gifford, do you understand

me—
whatever
it takes.”

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Gifford stared and his high colour rapidly drained out of his cheeks.

“Forgery
?” he whispered.

Walsingham’s jaundiced eyes fixed him with an icy stare.

“Whatever it takes,” he repeated steadily and smiled, showing long,

yellow teeth, remarkably akin to a rat’s. He pushed Babington’s re-sealed

letter across the desk between them. “You had better see that gets to

Chartley as soon as possible.”

t t t

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair beside an empty hearth and handed

Walsingham the deciphered copy.

“It condemns Babington and his friends,” she said quietly. “Nothing

more.”

“I admit that, madam, and for your immediate safety Babington could

be arrested at once, but—”

He hesitated and his eyes flickered over her face, searching for some

sign of her reaction. He was terrified of losing her support at this critical

juncture and his practised mind-reading gave him no glimmer of her

inward thoughts. Her face was as calm and blank as a stone wall.

“But?” she prompted coolly.

“Forgive me, madam, we would merely be striking at the branches

and leaving the root untouched.”

“Yes—I
am
familiar with your obsession, Walsingham.” She

glanced down to where Perrico sat with his head on Walsingham’s

softly slippered foot. Walsingham liked animals. She found that quite

out of character, but supposed that the man must have some human

failings. Privately it irked her every time she saw the little spaniel

launch himself across the room to grovel on his back, white paws

jerking wildly in the air in welcome. It was the sort of display she

would prefer to be totally reserved for herself—and perhaps Leicester,

under sufferance.

She looked up at last and said slowly, “What is it you want?”

“Your permission, madam, to keep the trap open a little longer, until

I have the positive proof you require. The bird approaches the net, but

one sound may scare her off.”

“You are so sure, aren’t you, Walsingham—so certain—she will agree!

Have you thought what would happen if Gifford took her reply straight

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to Babington instead? I’m sure he has. If I were dead, all the evidence in

the world would not keep her from my throne and Gifford would sit very

pretty in her favour.”

“I know, madam, I also know this asks a great deal of you personally,

but I have considered the matter carefully and I am convinced the risk

is minimal.”

“That is a great comfort,” she remarked sarcastically. After a moment

she got up and walked away to the window. He was convinced then

that he had failed and in his innermost heart supposed that he could not

really blame her. It was her life, after all, that he intended to juggle with,

and not many people could be expected to play the part of live bait with

nonchalance. He was about to bow and inform her that he would make

out an immediate order for Babington’s arrest, when she looked at him

over her shoulder and shrugged, almost carelessly.

“Well, Walsingham, if you are prepared to place my life in the hands

of a renegade Catholic spy I suppose the position is very desperate.”

“Madam?”

“I will be advised by you, sir—do whatever you think best.”

He walked to the window and dropped awkwardly on one knee,

kissing her hand with a sudden, unexpected wave of emotion.

“You realise, Your Majesty, that we can risk no extra guards or any

measure that would give rise to suspicion?”

She laughed harshly and tapped his gaunt cheek with cynical

amusement.

“I will not betray you, Walsingham, if that’s what you mean. Play

your little games with my life in peace.”

t t t